Costumes
by concretebrush
Summary: Sherlock and John attend a costume party for criminals. Sherlock bumps into Moriarty, literally, and things are said. Oneshot. Nonslash. Pre-Reichenbach.


AN: And another oneshot. This is PRE-REICHENBACH

Disclaimer: I still don't own anything. Not Sherlock, not Keane's song, nothing.

* * *

_And if you have a minute why don't we go  
Talk about it somewhere only we know?_

_-_"Somewhere Only We Know" by Keane

* * *

_6:00 - Baker Street_

"John. Help me out here?" Sherlock grunted, all his usual poise gone as he struggled into ill fitting metallic trousers.

"And you just had to pick the most conspicuous costume there is, right? Of course. Your unfulfillable need to be noticed." John sighed with deep resignation on his face.

"It's a _costume_ party. This is a _costume_. I like it. And I already told you, this way I can easily get past those metal detectors with the mic."

"You could've just said you got metal implants or something."

"This is a Criminal Convention we are attending. Metal implants would look too suspicious."

"Do you think...no..."

"Spit it out John."

"Do you think Moriarty will be there? I know he is supposedly in North Africa right now..."

"The hosts do run in the same circles; it is certainly a possibility. You can't always rely on Mycroft's information. That's why we'll be prepared. I have a gun tucked into the inside of the torso piece. You should find a way to smuggle it past the metal detectors as well."

_8:30 pm - Unknown Location_

The music hung in the room like fog, and the heavy beat shook the chandeliers and rattled the glasses.

John had yet to get over his shock. This was not at all how he imagined criminal parties to be. They were all very friendly and courteous too; asking if he had a drink, was he new, did he need anything-if he knew what they meant. The criminals were _nice._

A very unresponsive John just stuttered out some unintelligible answers.

Sherlock was at home.

The consummate actor, one moment he was a beaten down petty thief, and the next, he was a rising gang leader. He knew who to be with each person in such a way that he would get answers; a master manipulator. He might be antisocial, but that didn't mean he couldn't play people with the same finesse as he did his violin.

"Oh hello! Pardon-didn't see you there mate." A rather jolly Santa Claus turned around to face Sherlock.

"Oh, no problem."

"I like your costume. It's quite original."

"And yours too. Interesting choice."

"First time?"

"Yes, quite."

"Bet you thought we'd all dress up like Al Capone or some rubbish." Santa Claus said, mischievously.

Sherlock chuckled, "well, this is a bit different that what I'd imagine."

"Are you new?"

"To the criminal world? Yes."

"Ah. Well then, welcome. We are so much more interesting than those_ boring_ goody two shoes. We have fun, make the messes, set the traps, and they just run around like headless chickens, unorganized and left to do damage control. It makes me laugh." Santa said with a disdainful smile on his face.

"Well these parties are certainly interesting...By the way, do you happen to know where the bar is?" John was to meet him there at quarter after nine, and it was currently quarter till.

"The bar? Have you been here before? Guests don't usually know where it is unless they are close to the family." Santa was beginning to get suspicious.

Sherlock couldn't very well say that he had a copy of the blueprints copied from the Construction agency's vaults lying around. Unfortunately, according to a side note, the bar had been relocated to elsewhere in the house, and the most updated blueprints had been burned...that fact itself had been enough for Lestrade to agree to send backup, if indeed it was needed.

Sherlock blandly responded, "Well, a house of this calibre customarily has a bar, no? I've been asked to be there at a certain time, and..." he trailed off.

"Ah," Santa Claus nodded knowingly, "I see, it's through that door and just around the corner, second to the right."

"Sherlock! There's people coming!"

"Yes I know. There's a meeting here at...ten I believe."

"That's in five _minutes_! We have to get out of here!"

"There. See that vent? It's big enough to crawl through," Sherlock shook his head, "big houses with big vents...and they wonder how people get in."

"If you would hurry up!" John's patience was fraying at an alarming pace.

"Oh drat! Quick! Hand me the grille!" They managed to clip in the cover-piece not a moment too soon. Sherlock quickly pulled out a tiny mic and stuck it to the frame of the grate. Lestrade would be able to tap into the conversations occurring in that room from his office at Scotland Yard.

Sherlock and John crawled silently along the labyrinth of vents guided by the layout Sherlock had committed to memory.

As they neared the exit, Sherlock suddenly put up a fist, the military 'halt' sign.

"What?" John hissed. He had complied readily, but was beginning to get cranky, his leg was starting to hurt again.

"I hear people." Sherlock said in a low voice, "This room was supposed to be clear right now."

"Do you think someone figured us out?"

"Not likely. I only hear one person. It's a rather expansive sitting room, so I think as long as he's on the other side, the furniture will still cover us on the way out."

"Hmmm. He's dressed as...Santa Claus. Odd. Alright...ah...I see him on the far side, he's looking out the window. The sofa and piano looks to be enough coverage, and the door is open."

"Alright. Go on. If he sees you I'll distract him. Meet you in the corridor."

John scrambled out of the vent with the quiet, efficient movements that accompany trained military personnel. He shuffled to the side until he was completely obscured by the sofa and then he straightened out his legs with his body still bent forward into that position that one so often sees on a person when said person leaves a theater in the middle of a production.

The second John was out the door, Sherlock rolled out of the vent and just as he was almost past the piano-

"Ah, the Tin Man," Santa paused a moment, "What exactly are you doing here?"

Sherlock froze, his heart sped up to double time. He may not be emotive but that didn't mean adrenaline doesn't affect him.

Sherlock turned around slowly. Santa Claus was still staring out the window. "Oh I got lost, and just...wandered into this room."

"Ha," Santa snorted, "The great_ Sherlock Holmes_ would never have gotten 'lost'."

Sherlock had an inkling of who precisely he was dealing with. He wasn't happy. "Well, it was worth a shot..._Moriarty_."

"Figured it out didn't you? I have to admit, that took you quite a while...getting senile? I figured out who you were the moment you asked me where the bar was. Well okay, I had a slight advantage, one of my sources had said you'd be dropping by. But really. Oh, and that's a wonderful disguise. I would have never guessed...except I would have." Moriarty smirked.

"Your sources?" Sherlock's mind was reeling, "There's a mole in Scotland Yard?...but of course..." A look of understanding slid across his face, "That would explain Cardiff and that train incident, and the disappearance of the evidence for Moran's trial."

"A few moles actually. Although I'm glad you're getting all this. It's just beautiful isn't it? It's really shocking how little money some people will sell their country out for."

"Lestrade-"

"Don't you worry about Lestrade, right now we are discussing you. This is a warning Sherlock. Something's coming. Something _big_. Hm...I'd imagine those plans of bombing Parliament Square will be a nice feather in your cap. But just so you know..." he paused as the tension built up, "I_t wasn't going to happen anyway._" Moriarty whispered.

"So is this why you brought me here? To 'warn' me?" Sherlock was rather irritated. The whole mission was a waste of time.

"Well, why not? Also, I just wanted to say hello to an old friend." Moriarty grinned slyly.

"If that's all then, I'll just be going."

"I must say it again, lovely costume, those tight metallic trousers are very...flattering," Moriarty waggled his eyebrows, "Someone I know once told me that a disguise is always a self portrait. I don't know if that's true but it certainly says something about you, doesn't it? The Tin Man. He's the one who was looking for a heart wasn't he? He didn't have a heart but he desperately wanted one. Just like you."

Sherlock laughed, "I think I know that person. But I picked this costume because it was the first metallic one I could find, and please, why would I want a heart?"

"You may not want one, but you are certainly on your way to finding one."

"But then, what does it say about you? First, the sweet Jim from the hospital, now Santa Claus. If I am the one without a heart, then I think you have too much of one."

Moriarty shrugs, "Well, this meeting isn't about me. Goodness knows how much is about me... It's about you. I just want you to know that you had better be prepared," His face suddenly twists into a snarl. "Be _very_ prepared."

_Present - Baker Street_

"What took you so long?" John said with a very aggravated look on his face, "I was about to go in and fetch you-!"

"You were right." Sherlock interrupted.

"What?"

"About Moriarty. He was there."

"WHAT? And you didn't call me in? What did he do? Are you alright?" John switched from extremely annoyed to concerned within seconds.

"I'm fine. We had a positively illuminating chat. There are moles in Scotland Yard."

"..."

"John?"

"Moles in _Scotland Yard_?" John was speechless, "Lestrade! He must...we must tell him! Immediately!"

"Yes, yes, of course. But even then, he'll just buy his way into the hearts of other people. Lestrade should investigate but he shouldn't flush them out. Then he can feed then misinformation."

"Hmph. Well. Let's get out of here. The plans have all been transmitted."

"I have a feeling that those plans won't be necessary."

John looked at Sherlock oddly, but decided to leave it be.

"But, Sherlock, wasn't Moriarty supposed to be in South Africa? What was he doing there?"

"Mycroft says the intel is sketchy; those informants aren't all that reliable. But he was talking to a...Richard Brook?"


End file.
